


i think we're alone now

by dutty (vodka)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/pseuds/dutty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Zayn and Harry drunkenly decide they should hook up and the universe is solely devoted to cockblocking at every turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i think we're alone now

**Author's Note:**

> -Background mentions of Perrie/Zayn  
> -This got very out of hand.

It’s just gone 2am and the club’s started to wind down, half the people that’d been there having left somewhere between now and midnight and the other half spread thin amongst cordoned off tables and last attempts at pulling on the dance floor. The music’s become slow—downtempo songs that are old and hard to dance to, and it’s obvious that they’d been specially handpicked for last by the DJ, because they’re theoretically perfect for clearing stragglers off the dance floor.

Or at least that’s what Zayn makes of it, sat with no choice but to admire the tenacity of the people grinding slow and dirty to ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’, but all in all it’d been a shit night and Zayn can’t wait to leave. 

Louis’d had too many shots in too little time and had been sent home before the night had even got off to a proper start, Liam calling him a taxi after Louis had fallen flat on his arse on the dance floor and then in the loo, spectacularly topping it all off by sliding right off the seat in their booth when they’d tried to sober him up by tipping his head back and forcing cups of water down his throat. Liam’s still around, fucking about on the dance floor with Andy and Niall and a group of girls that Zayn’s quite sure none of them know and none of them have got any interest in because they look too young to be here in the first place. And even pissed as Zayn is there’s nothing particularly attractive about any of them. 

That’d been half the reason the night’d been shit: no fit girls. 

The few hot ones that had caught Zayn’s eye had been hanging off their boyfriends’ arms all night, or had been with annoyingly good friends who’d swooped in and carried them off because it’d been quite obvious that Zayn was on the pull and they hadn’t trusted anyone to make good decisions. 

The night becomes even more of a waste when a half-full glass of vodka cranberry upends on Zayn’s knee; the girl Harry’s been chatting up’s just pulled herself into Harry’s lap, her elbow knocking over the drink that Zayn had told Harry to get her when Zayn had pulled Harry aside like any wingman worth his salt would, telling him which girl to go for and how to go about it. The irony isn’t lost on Zayn.

But now that he’s a bit more sober, he’s no idea why Harry had gone for her, nor does he know why he’d pushed Harry to do it; she’s nothing special; dark hair and too much fake tan on and her tits are one loud giggle away from spilling out through the cut outs in her dress. 

“Sorry, mate,” Harry says on her behalf, patting Zayn’s knee where it’s still damp with sticky juice and vodka. 

She turns, flashing Zayn an apologetic smile, big hoop earrings swinging gently against her cheeks. Zayn decides then and there that he doesn’t like her upturned nose or the frosted pink lipstick she’s got on. And it’s not like he hasn’t fucked worse (she really does have a decent little body: a nice round arse and a good handful of tits), and Harry’s _definitely_ fucked worse, but for some reason Zayn is bothered by the whole thing and he can’t, doesn’t want to, let it go. 

He slips a hand round the back of Harry’s neck, sweaty curls slipping between his fingers. “Abort mission,” he says into Harry’s ear, loud enough for Harry to hear him over the Chris Brown dubstep remix that’s just come on. 

Harry frowns, his grip on her hip slackening a bit as he leans into Zayn’s space. “Why?” 

Zayn makes a face, nose crinkling and upper lip curled. “You really want to settle tonight? Just saying you could do a lot better, lad.” 

Harry seems to share Zayn’s sentiment about the fact that he’s fucked worse, because his eyes slide slow and drunk down the curves of her body, and then he looks back at Zayn with that confused crease between his eyebrows that makes him look like an adorable, cross child. “What’s wrong with her? She’s nice.” 

Zayn shrugs. He doesn’t know, either, thinks maybe he’s just mad that he’s going home alone whilst Harry’s managed to pull, but that doesn’t really feel like that’s what this is about; there’s something else that’s bothering him, something that feels new and uncomfortable and like Zayn doesn’t really want to think about it at the moment.

“It’s your call,” he says, reaching for the rum and coke Harry’s been neglecting since _Charlotte_ , Zayn remembers, had made her way into their booth with her French-tipped fingers slotted between Harry’s. 

Harry pulls back a bit. He’s still frowning and his eyes are strangely determined and bright in the low light. But then he’s whispering something into Charlotte’s ear and getting his mobile out, taking her number as she slips out of his lap. She presses a kiss to his cheek, shooting Zayn a nasty look over Harry’s shoulder that Zayn returns with a wry smirk and a raise of his glass. He knows he’s acting like an absolute prick, but he can’t find it in him to be arsed about it. He’s always had a penchant for being moody with a few drinks in him, happy one moment, morose and distant the next. 

“What was that about then?” Harry asks, watching Zayn’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows down the rest of what had been Harry’s rum and coke. 

Zayn slams the empty glass back onto the table, wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him in close. “I was just looking out for you, saving you from mingers.”

Harry laughs into Zayn’s cheek, dry lips catching on stubble. “C’mon, Zayn, she wasn’t that bad. She was definitely one of the prettier girls here.” 

“Not really that hard to be when everyone minging was out tonight. Trust me, you would well regret that when you woke up in the morning with fake tan all over your sheets.” 

Harry shakes his head incredulously, looking torn between barking out another laugh and telling Zayn off for being rude. “You’re awful, you know,” he settles on the telling off, giving a loose smile that’s got shadows falling in his dimples. “Can’t imagine what you’d say about me if we weren’t friends.” 

“I’d say you’re sexy and your pretty, curly hair turns me on,” Zayn says, perfectly serious. 

“What is it with you and Harry’s hair?” Liam’s popped back in. He’s cradling four shot glasses in his hands. They’re filled with something green that’s sloshed over the rims and onto his wrists. Niall’s at his side, glassy-eyed and damp with sweat, nursing a can of Red Stripe.

“Zayn likes curly hair,” Niall says, loud the way he always gets after he’s had too much to drink. “Just think, you could’ve had Zayn’s heart if you hadn’t got rid of yours.”

Liam sets the shots on the table, careful not to let any more spill. “I know; that’s why I cut it. I couldn’t handle Zayn’s unwanted advances.” 

Niall and Harry burst into a fit of laughter like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Zayn flips Liam off, asks, “What is this shit anyway?” as he reaches for a shot. 

“It’s a surprise—Oi! Harry, wait for the rest of us!” 

But Liam’s too late and Harry’s already got his shot down, tongue flickering out to nudge wetly at his bottom lip. “I like it; ‘s good and minty. What is it?” 

“Well now I don’t want to tell you,” Liam says blithely, reaching for his own shot. “Cheers, lads!” 

Harry kicks Zayn’s shin beneath the table, nearly making Zayn choke on his shot. He’s got a ridiculously earnest betrayed scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What was that for?” Zayn coughs out, jabbing a finger into Harry’s cheek, right where it’d dimple if Harry were smiling instead of being miserable. “It’s not my fault you’re greedy.” 

“Greedy, greedy Harry,” Liam agrees, which makes Niall laugh out so loud that his body’s shaking and he’s got to grip the table for balance. Liam turns to get a good look at him, frowning in that concerned, serious way that only Liam is capable of whilst drunk in the middle of a nightclub. “Mate, you are absolutely _pissed._ ”

Niall throws his hands up, spattering beer onto Liam’s shirt. “Everybody’s pissed! It’s late!” 

“He does have a point,” Harry says, checking his phone for the time. “They’ll be kicking us out soon; it’s almost 3. Where’s Andy?” 

“Off to a house party just up the road.” Liam shrugs, getting his own mobile out. “Met a girl just now who’s got friends there and she said it’s still going strong. Nialler and I are thinking about going, you guys want to come? Andy’s just texted saying it’s sick—lots of girls and drinks.” 

Zayn can’t think of anything he’d rather do less. He’s had enough loud music and unfortunate looking girls for one night. “Don’t know about Harry, but I think I’m just going to head home and go to bed,” he says, and it’s as though just thinking about his bed’s made him tired, because he’s suddenly all out of energy, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and get comfortable beneath the duvet and sleep until it’s well into the afternoon, if he bothers getting up at all. 

Neither Liam nor Niall looks like they’d actually been expecting him to tag along; they know him entirely too well and had probably only asked out of politeness, but it doesn’t stop Niall from complaining: “You’re so boring sometimes, man. At least have another round with us before we go.” 

Zayn laughs. “Alright, I think I can do that. I’ll even walk you lads out; down to have a smoke outside, Niall?” 

“Yeah, sounds good.” Niall’s back to grinning big and stupid, all glinting white teeth and braces. Zayn kind of wants to hug him but the table’s in the way. Niall then turns to Harry. “What about you then, Harry? There’ll be lots of girls there.” He wriggles his eyebrows. 

Harry shakes his head, damp hair loose and clinging to his temple. “I’m kind of tired, actually, and I’m meant to be having lunch with friends tomorrow, so it’d probably be wise to have an early night.” 

“Zayn, what have you done to Harry? You’ve made him boring now, too!” Liam says dramatically, looking at them both with exaggerated shock. 

Niall finishes his Red Stripe in one long pull, slamming the empty can onto the table so hard that the tin crumples a bit as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Zayn’s antisocial-ness is contagious. I once spent an entire month indoors because I’d hung round him too much. Lost my tan and everything.”

Liam snickers, looking bright eyed and much too amused. “Yeah, I remember that! You were a shell of your former self when you finally came back.”

“When has Niall ever had a tan, you wankers?” Zayn digs his fingers into one of the glasses on the table, throwing a barely solid ice cube that melts upon contact with Niall’s shoulder. Niall raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Zayn still wants to hug him. “Hurry up and fetch our shots so Harry and I can go home.” 

Niall laughs and sticks his tongue out and then he and Liam are gone, disappearing through the sparse groups on the dance floor and heading to the bar. Harry fidgets, managing to press his thigh and shoulder even closer to Zayn’s, and Zayn puts his arm back around Harry’s neck without even thinking about it.

“Do you mind if I come round to yours? Not actually ready to go to bed yet; just don’t want to be out anymore,” Harry says softly, hand warm on Zayn’s knee. He looks sheepish and a little lonely, and Zayn knows how much Harry doesn’t like staying in his flat, hasn’t done since he and Louis had moved out of the one they’d been sharing. Zayn understands; he’s substituted his own Bradford family with the little London one he’s made with Perrie and Danny and their dogs, because he doesn’t think home feels like _home_ without familiar faces and familiar noises and just someone to miss you and then come home to at the end of it all. 

He grabs Harry’s face, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and Harry giggles, looking all young and drunk as he buries his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck. 

“Of course you can come round, mate,” Zayn says, breathing in the smell of Harry’s hair. It smells like the product Lou’s recently taken to scrunching into Harry’s curls, and a bit like coconut with just a hint of sweat that’s not gone sour yet.

“Thanks, man. I love you,” Harry says, nipping at Zayn’s shoulder with a bit too much teeth. Zayn’s always got off more when biting’s involved, and he feels his face go warm, cock giving a twitch in his trousers. He clenches his jaw, annoyed all over again at the fact that he hadn’t been able to pull tonight. 

“You alright?” Harry asks, pulling himself back up, just enough so that he can get a good look at Zayn’s face without Zayn’s arm slipping from where it’s still perched across his shoulders. “You got all tense all of a sudden.” 

Zayn shrugs. “Just wish tonight had been better.” Harry’s face falls a little and Zayn finds himself scrabbling to put him back to rights. “I mean the girls—just wish there’d been hotter ones out. Would’ve really fancied a fuck tonight.” 

“Is that why you stopped me from talking to Charlotte, then? Misery loves company and all that?” Harry grins. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s pissed and being a cheeky twat.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’re coming home with me; wouldn’t want you to sneak her into your flat and wake up with an orange prick and a crippling sense of regret.” 

“I don’t know… “ Harry says, grinning even wider now with his bottom lip sucked under his teeth. “I’d still say an orange prick’s better than blue balls.” 

Zayn snorts, painfully and reluctantly endeared. “You are the worst at banter, mate.” 

Harry pulls out from under Zayn’s arm, idly spinning one of the glasses on the table between his long, pale fingers. It slides easily in the ring of condensed water beneath it, and Zayn’s distracted by how nice Harry’s hands are for a moment, broad palms and thin fingers. “Yeah, well, one thing’s certain: neither of us is getting any pussy tonight. Thanks for that, by the way. Always appreciate a good cockblock.” 

“It was for your own good,” Zayn says. Harry spins the glass again. “It’s not like you _had_ to listen to me anyway. I mean, you’ve got her number, don’t you? She probably hasn’t left yet; you could still ring her up.”

Harry makes a dismissive noise, more of a grunt than anything else, sat with his shoulders hunched and awkward and spinning his glass like a spoilt, overgrown, sexually frustrated brat. 

“Are you really stroppy over some bird you don’t even know? What the hell, Haz?” 

“I’m not stroppy,” Harry says, rolling his eyes like Zayn’s the one who’s been huffing about. “But I _am_ going to wank when we get back to yours, so don’t complain because it’s your fault that I’ve got to resort to that in the first place.” 

Harry’s smiling at him now and Zayn can’t help but smile stupidly back, whatever tension that’d been flaring between the two of them gone. 

“As long as I get to watch, yeah?” Zayn laughs. 

Harry lowers his gaze onto Zayn’s mouth, licking his own lips as his eyelids flutter, up and down and up again, giving Zayn a once-over that feels too dirty to just be mates dicking about. And then he’s got that lopsided grin on, the one Zayn’s seen him use a million times when he’s flirting with girls he wants to see naked. Zayn thinks it’s a sign that Harry’s too drunk, and the fact that Zayn wants to see how far this will go is a sign that Zayn’s too drunk, as well. 

“You can’t just watch,” Harry’s close again, talking right into Zayn’s ear with a hand on his thigh. “Might as well help out if you’re there. That way we both get something good tonight?” 

Zayn shifts, throwing an ankle across his knee because his jeans are pressing into his cock; he hadn’t noticed he’d been getting hard, doesn’t usually happen so fast, especially when he’s been drinking. Harry’s hand moves higher, fingers so long that they’re completely curved around Zayn’s inner thigh. “Are you just chatting shit right now?” Zayn keeps his head straight, watches as Niall and Liam make their way back across the dance floor with another round of shots. 

He feels Harry shrug, shoulder butting against his own. “Don’t think so, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough, yeah?” 

“Are we interrupting something?” Liam says as he comes round to the other side of the table, wriggling in between Zayn and Harry and forcing them on opposite ends of the sectional. 

Zayn’s a little agitated now, sees why Harry’d been so pissy for those few moments because Zayn feels like he’s the one being cockblocked this time, and he’s never taken kindly to that feeling. He watches Niall and Liam each place four shooters onto the table top, Niall plopping himself down on Zayn’s other side that’s not being flanked by Liam as he announces: “Two shots each this round! Gotta go out with a bang.” 

“You do know you’re not going to survive this house party, right? You’re already ridiculously pissed,” Zayn says, ruffling Niall’s hair. Niall nuzzles into it, throwing his head back with a big, drunk, blissful smile that makes Zayn wish he’d had his phone out so could snap a picture because Niall looks bloody _hilarious_ , cheeks gone red and eyes glassy.

“We are bad friends,” Harry says, leaning forward so they can all see him from where he’d disappeared behind Liam. “Niall’s mum is going to kill us when she finds out he’s got alcohol poisoning in the morning.” 

“Oh fuck off,” Niall laughs, pushing a shot towards Harry. “Not like you’re any better.” 

“Yeah, but I can actually handle my drinks,” Harry shoots back. 

Everyone laughs at that. Harry smiles sheepishly, ducking his head, and it’s funny that he’d actually been serious when there’s been at least two fairly recent incidents where he’d got his clothes off and thrown up places that weren’t even remotely close to being the toilet. And that’s neglecting to take all the photos paparazzi’ve snapped into consideration, where Harry’d needed to be held upright by friends and security and people he barely even knows after all those parties he’s taken to making rounds at.

“Alright,” Liam distributes the shots around the booth like there’s a responsible way to get his mates irresponsibly drunk. “Think we should do the Slippery Nipple first.” 

“I always fancy a slippery nipple,” Harry says, giving the shooter a twist.

Zayn smirks, running his tongue across his front teeth. “I would’ve fancied a Blow Job more.” 

Harry’s eyes positively gleam. He bites at his lip, that flirty smile dimpling his cheeks. “We’ll have to get you one of those later, then, won’t we?” 

Liam seems to figure out quite quickly that they’re probably not all talking about shots anymore, looking between Zayn and Harry like he’s not sure that this is really happening, and if it is, like he doesn’t want to be trapped in the middle of it. But then he’s yelling at Niall, all thoughts of Zayn and Harry and sexual innuendos on the backburner because this time it’s Niall who’s gone and had his shot without waiting for rest of them. 

The Slippery Nipple goes down easy but the other shot’s just as milky and tastes of coffee. Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up getting him sick tonight. 

He crowds up behind Harry as they make their way out through club’s back entrance, Harry wobbly on his feet because the drinks have gone straight to his head now that he’s standing up. Zayn’s feeling much the same, but Harry’s clumsy on even the most sober of days and it wouldn’t do to have him fall and mess his pretty face up. Once they’re outside on the pavement, Harry links his arm in Zayn’s whilst Zayn lets Niall nick a fag off him so they can have a smoke, standing crooked so that his head’s on Zayn’s shoulder. Liam’s stood off to the side with his phone out, probably texting Andy. 

“Are you still up for it?” Harry asks, low so that only Zayn can hear him. 

“Yeah,” Zayn replies without even thinking about it. His cock’s been in varying states of hard since Harry had suggested this in the first place. “Are you?” 

“Mhmm,” Harry hums playfully, chancing a tug on Zayn’s earring with his teeth. It’s all Zayn can do not to push Harry up against the wall and kiss him right there, so he just keeps takes a particularly deep drag off his cigarette, blowing smoke up into the air. 

“You’re a prick,” he says. 

Harry snickers, fringe falling over his eyes. 

“Don’t be callin’ Harry a prick,” Niall’s suddenly paying attention again, accent thick and loud. “Harry’s a good lad—Harry’s the best lad!” 

“Up the lads?” Harry pulls away from Zayn, getting closer to Niall. He’s practically bouncing with energy. 

It sets Niall off.

“Up the lads! Up the fucking lads!” Niall barrels into Harry’s chest, hugging him hard, and then they’re both squeezing each other and jumping about and Niall is kissing Harry’s cheeks and banging on about ‘lads’. Zayn lights another cigarette. 

“Think we should get a taxi soon. It’s getting late,” Zayn says, mostly to Harry, because as amusing as this all is, he’d quite like to get Harry out of those clothes and into Zayn’s flat as soon as possible, see how far ‘up for it’ takes them. 

Liam joins the group again, phone pocketed as he pulls Niall and Harry apart so that he can slot himself in the middle, arms thrown across both their shoulders. Niall’s lost his cigarette in all the madness and Harry’s shirt’s got a cigarette burn on the chest pocket. 

“Change of plans; Andy’s at another party that’s apparently sick. Lots of models are there, think your friend Cara might be there, too, Hazza.” 

Harry holds Zayn’s stare as he says, “Still going to pass, I think. I’m absolutely knackered.” 

Niall raises his eyebrows hopefully. “Zayn?” 

“You really must be drunk if you think Zayn’s coming,” Liam laughs, giving Niall a small tap on the nose that makes him curse and scrunch his face up. “We can share a taxi; it’s out by Zayn’s place.” 

Zayn’s torn between ripping his own hair out and doing a bizarre angry, flailing dance that ends with him punching a hole in the wall, or breaking his hand trying. He’d really like to get Harry alone, was looking forward to _something_ in the back of the taxi, but now they’re stuck with Niall and Liam who’ve both sat between them and Zayn’s flat is the first stop on the way. Zayn barely responds whilst Liam updates him on each thing that Andy’s texting him about the party, and he can hear Harry and Niall going on about a pub they’ve both been meaning to go to that everyone’s been recommending. 

They finally get to Zayn’s place, and Zayn’s got to wait a moment whilst Harry tries to pay and Liam is adamant that he’s got it covered. Zayn ends up shoving the crumpled up notes in his pocket into the driver’s hands. He doesn’t stay long enough to know if it’s too much or too little and right now he just doesn’t care. 

As soon as the taxi moves off with Niall and Liam yelling rowdy goodbyes through the window, Zayn pulls Harry against him and licks into his mouth. Harry makes a pleased noise low in his throat, pulling Zayn in even closer with two hands on Zayn’s hips. Harry’s lips are stupidly soft and he still tastes a bit like that coffee shot, but Zayn thinks the shot tastes better on Harry’s tongue than it had at the club.

It’s a wonder they make it to the front door without falling; Zayn can’t stop kissing Harry and Harry’s like dead weight on him because Harry’s apparently decided he doesn’t need to give a shit about his own balance if Zayn’s able to hold him up. They break apart long enough for Zayn to get the door open, and he goes to pull Harry back in for another kiss when Hatchi darts towards them, barking and wagging his tail with Danny right behind him. 

Zayn wants to die. He just might if he stays this hard for much longer.

“You’re up late,” Zayn says, hoping Danny doesn’t look too closely at their kiss-swollen mouths and the way their jeans are stretched conspicuously tight in the crotch. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Danny says. “Harry, mate, you alright?”

“I’m good, thanks. “ They bump fists and then Harry turns to Zayn. “Mind if I use the loo?” 

“You know where it is,” Zayn says, playing it off cool when what he really wants to say is ‘if you get yourself off in my toilet without even letting me watch, then you’re an arsehole.’ 

Harry’s apparently a mind reader, because his face gets all red, suddenly shy. “Won’t be long.” 

Zayn watches Harry go, gangly and _pissed_ as he trips over his own feet in his too-big boots. Hatchi follows him, probably as disgustingly charmed as Zayn feels at the moment. Danny, however, looks well amused. 

“Bet he’s going to throw up,” he says. 

“Probably.” 

“Was just about to roll a joint to help me get to sleep. You want in?” Danny says, heading towards the kitchen. 

“D’you even have to ask?” Zayn pulls up a barstool and watches Danny fetch a couple glasses and fill them with water. 

“That’s for you, and Harry whenever he comes back,” Danny says, putting the glasses down on the bar top and reaching into the pockets of his track pants for a baggie and rolling papers. Zayn and Danny look out for each other, have done for years, but Danny’s always a bit more thoughtful when Perrie’s away or she and Zayn are having a fight. And it’s a bit of both right now; Little Mix is off somewhere doing a small tour, and Zayn and Perrie are on another one of their breaks that don’t really feel like breaks because they still live together and they never stop fucking or acting like best friends. It’s a bit mad, that, but it’s how they’ve always been and Zayn’s used to it now.

Danny pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bar. Zayn quietly watches him sprinkle the weed along the paper with careful fingers. The room spins just a bit, but he thinks he’s sobering up. His cock has even softened some, although he still feels fucking horny and he wonders what’s taking Harry so long. 

“Have a good night, then?” Danny asks conversationally, licking at the paper and beginning to roll it. 

Zayn takes a sip of water. “Club was kind of shit. Music was alright, but there was like, barely any fit girls. Was nice hanging out with the lads, though. Louis got fucked up in like half an hour and had to leave.” Zayn can’t help but snicker at that, remembering Louis practically dancing into the ground in slow motion the first time he’d fallen on his arse. 

Danny laughs, too. “Fuckin’ Tommo. That’s my boy.” 

“It was epic,” Zayn agrees. 

Harry joins them in the kitchen just as Danny’s lighting the joint, pulling up the barstool next to Zayn. Wiz Khalifa’s playing on the iHome that’s been a permanent fixture on the counter for the past couple months. 

Zayn doesn’t even realise his hand is on Harry’s thigh until he’s rubbed up and down at least twice, but Harry’s legs have always looked ridiculously long and well-shaped in all the identical, dark skinny jeans he’s amassed, and Zayn’s too drunk to pretend he doesn’t notice. Harry licks his lips and smiles at him. Zayn wants to fuck his face. Why can’t he just do that? Why couldn’t he get a handjob in the taxi? Why hadn’t they got each other off in the loo at the club? _Why is Danny still up?_

Zayn’s decided the universe is against him, sort of like Scott Pilgrim but only not at all.

“Where’s Hatchi?” Danny asks Harry, passing him the joint. “That water’s for you, by the way. Did you throw up?” 

“Tried to. Wouldn’t come up, though,” Harry admits with a sheepish grin. “Hatchi abandoned me; think he’s in your room having a nap.” He takes a couple hits, coughing immediately. Harry’s always got a cough, probably shouldn’t be smoking at all. Zayn plucks the joint from his fingers, putting it to his own lips instead as Harry drinks his water. 

They end up sharing another joint and then sitting down with leftover takeaway that’s too spicy to be a good idea when you’ve been out drinking all night. Zayn tries not to look at Harry’s mouth as Harry and Danny talk excitedly about music, and then Harry helps Danny clear away their plates, leaving Zayn sat on the sofa wondering how the hell Harry manages to be so cheerful and accommodating whilst Zayn feels like he’s going to explode if someone doesn’t touch him soon.

“Well, I’m off to bed, then,” Danny says, yawning. Zayn’s so fucking happy he could die. But not before he gets his dick between Harry’s lips. He watches Danny give Harry a loose hug, punching Zayn on the shoulder with a _’Night, bro’_ , before he takes off, finally leaving Zayn alone with Harry in their sitting room. 

Zayn’s on Harry before he hears Danny’s bedroom door click shut, pulling Harry down onto the sofa with him and kissing him hard. He’s got a good handful of arse, grinding his hips up into Harry’s as he bites on the sharp jut of his jaw. Harry’s fingers dig into his shoulder.

“We should take this to my room,” Zayn decides, already getting up. Harry just giggles as Zayn tugs him along, even slower and less coordinated than he had been because he’s high now, too. 

Harry’s always been good at getting his clothes off quickly, and Zayn’s glad for it right now; he’s seen Harry naked more times than anyone really needs to, and yeah Harry’s fit, but he’s never appreciated it like he does now. Harry’s pale, dark tattoos and long-limbed, still somehow boyish and lanky with a bit of muscle on him, and it looks good.

And then they’re both naked, Zayn on top of Harry, licking and sucking on his neck, moving down to flick his tongue over one puffy nipple. Harry makes a breathy ‘oh’ sound that drives Zayn fucking crazy, and he sucks harder, getting Harry’s nipple between his teeth and tugging, making Harry buck his hips up and tighten his legs around Zayn’s hips. He can feel how wet the tip of Harry’s cock is where it’s nestled between them, the head slick and pressing into Zayn’s belly. 

“You get really wet, like a girl almost,” Zayn laughs, pressing his thumb into the slit, wiping the pre-come down Harry’s cock, tossing him off with his own slick. Harry’s looking down at him with his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth, eyes dark and lidded and cheeks flushed, and Zayn wants to hear him make that ‘oh’ noise again. He sucks at Harry’s nipple, roughing it up with his teeth, using his other hand to press Harry’s hip down and keep him from squirming so bloody much. Harry’s fingers curl in the longer hair on top of Zayn’s head, pulling on it so that Zayn’s got to bite onto his nipple even harder to keep it between his teeth. 

“I’m not gonna last, Zayn, fuck—” 

Zayn’s kind of awed as he watches Harry lose it, coming all over Zayn’s hand and on his own stomach, thighs tensing and neck thrown back as his hair falls into his eyes. 

“You’re so fucking hot, Harry,” Zayn babbles, sounding and feeling drunk off more than just alcohol. It doesn’t even matter that Harry’d barely lasted a respectable time; it’s hot and Harry’s hot and Zayn thinks it’d be hotter if he makes Harry come again. 

“You’re hotter,” Harry laughs, breathless, when Zayn guides one of his hands onto Zayn’s cock. “You’re going to hate me, though.” 

Zayn frowns. “Why am I going to hate you?” 

“Think I’m going to pass out at any moment,” Harry says with an apologetic smile, eyelids drooping. 

Zayn wants to die. “Are you serious right now?” 

“I’ll make it up to you when I get up, I promise, just need to sleep right now. You’ll get your blowjob, don’t be sad.” And with that, Harry closes his eyes, going quiet. 

Zayn can’t believe this is happening. 

Harry starts to snore. 

Zayn attempts a wank when it’s become apparent that Harry isn’t getting up anytime soon, not even bothering to get out of the bed or caring that it’s creepy to stare at Harry as he does it, but he thinks he’s at that level of drunk where coming is almost impossible, because it just feels like it’s building up but nothing’s actually happening. 

He sighs and calls Harry a twat before giving in and curling himself around Harry’s body, throwing an arm across Harry’s waist and burying his face in his neck. He passes out quicker than he thought he would. 

 

*

 

Harry doesn’t ‘make it up’ to Zayn in the morning. 

Instead he wakes Zayn up at an ungodly hour (quarter past 11), because the alarm on his phone’s going off and it’s the most grating noise _ever_. 

“I’m going to be late for lunch,” Harry says, trying to get his phone out from the pocket of his discarded trousers, thumb sliding across the screen to shut the alarm off. Then he’s on the phone with Grimmy, telling him he’d overslept and he’s at a friend’s house and he’s going to be a bit late. He’s pulling his clothes back on as he does all this, and Zayn’s sad to see his arse covered back up, closing his eyes again once Harry’s pants are back on.

He falls into a light sleep, vaguely aware of Harry making another call to have a car come round to get him. When he wakes up again it’s to Harry telling him he’ll see him later, and then he can hear Danny and Harry puttering about in the kitchen, making toast and coffee whilst Hatchi scampers about, claws clicking against the floor. 

The next time Zayn wakes up, it’s 3 o’clock and Harry’s long gone. He thinks back on last night, and it’s a bit shocking that he still wants to get off with Harry even though he’s not drunk anymore, but he supposes the moment’s passed now. 

Harry doesn’t contact him and Zayn doesn’t contact Harry, either, and it’s two days before they’re together again at rehearsal. 

 

*

 

“I still owe you, don’t I?” Harry asks out of the blue. 

Zayn barely manages to swallow the chips he’d been eating, throat gone dry. 

They’re on break, all sat on the floor at the studio they’re rehearsing at with KFC that Louis’d convinced someone to fetch them. They’re meant to be eating healthier at the moment, preparation for the tour and all that, but Louis has always been a persuasive bastard, convincing members of their team to do all sorts of stupid shit. Harry’d been acting like nothing unusual had happened between them when Zayn had shown up; it hadn’t been awkward or anything, but it did feel cripplingly platonic, and Zayn had made peace with it, had silently mourned the loss of never having a chance to fuck Harry’s mouth. He’s just glad their friendship’s still good, really, because fooling around always has a way of fucking things up.

But now Harry’s bringing it up in front of everyone, cheeky grin on his face as he slurps on his straw. 

“What does Zayn owe you?” Louis asks, sending them curious looks.

“It’s confidential,” Harry says.

Louis scoffs. “Well that’s just not fair.” 

“Yeah, no secrets in a crowd,” Liam pipes in. “Back us up on this one, Nialler!” 

Niall gives Liam a thumbs-up, rather preoccupied with the handful of chicken he’s got.

“It’s nothing interesting, just something from the other night,” Zayn says, licking his lips. “Yeah, you do owe me, Haz.” 

Harry’s smile shouldn’t look as dirty as it does. “Are you doing anything this evening? I can drop by.”

“Haven’t got any plans, no,” Zayn says quickly. “Danny and Ant have got a party in Bradford, so I’ll be fucking about alone. Pop in whenever.” 

Harry nods slowly, fiddling with his fringe. Zayn can see one ear go pink at the tip, curls tucked behind it. “Sounds good.” 

“Are we invited, as well?” Louis tilts his head, faux-offended expression firmly in place. “Seems a bit rude to tell secrets and then only invite Harry right in front of the lot of us.”

Zayn loves Louis, he really does, but if Louis manages to turn this into another episode of Zayn not getting off with Harry and going to bed with a stiff cock, he’s going to fucking lose his mind, and he’d really hate to have to kill one of his best mates. 

“No,” Zayn says, hoping everyone laughs it off whilst still taking the hint. Harry looks terribly amused and just a little bit worried that this could go pear-shaped.

Louis shrugs, smirking. “I’ve got plans anyway.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, pulling Louis in for a hug. “Prick,” he says fondly. And then Liam, Harry, and Niall are in on the hug, too, and everyone smells a little like fried chicken, but it’s nice. 

Rehearsal resumes shortly after and it goes well enough, Louis convincing everyone to stay back for a bit to kick about a football in the car park. A big group of fans have set up shop on the other side of the fence, screaming and taking pictures, the lads occasionally going up to them and making conversation. Zayn doesn’t think he’s acting any differently than he usually does, but when his hand’s on Harry’s waist, perhaps unnecessarily, he does hear a couple girls shriek _Zarry!_

 

*

 

By the time Harry comes round, Zayn’s had enough time to nap for a few hours with Hatchi curled up beside him before making dinner and having a shower. Harry looks good, freshly showered and wearing a black jumper that’s too big, skin visible through the loose knit. His jeans are so tight that Zayn wonders how he’s going to get them off.

“Is this awkward now that we’re not drunk?” Harry says by way of greeting, toeing his boots off at the door. 

“No,” Zayn replies, completely honest. 

“Yeah, it’s weird. Guess we’re just too comfortable with each other.”

Zayn doesn’t really want to talk anymore; he’s already embarrassingly hard and he’d kind of like to just touch Harry before the universe catches on and something or someone else gets in the way. Zayn kisses Harry from the foyer to the bedroom, lost in how soft his mouth is, how slow he flicks his tongue against Zayn’s.

But even though Harry kisses slow, his hands move fast, and he’s got them both naked by the time he’s pushing Zayn onto the bed, spreading Zayn’s thighs so that he can get on his knees between them. 

“Time for that blowjob, innit?” he says with a wink, licking a fat stripe up the middle of Zayn’s cock. 

Zayn watches, shocked and more than a little impressed as Harry tilts his head to the side so that breadth of his tongue runs along the length of Zayn’s cock, just letting Zayn slip along the opening of his soft, pink lips. 

Zayn tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, making Harry look up at him. “Done this a lot, have you, Styles?” 

Harry’s lips have already begun to get puffy, face flushed and pupils large in his glassy, green eyes. “Maybe.”

Then he swallows Zayn down until Zayn’s cock is hitting the back of his throat, and Zayn learns first-hand that Harry’s mouth isn’t just pretty to look at; he’s fucking _amazing_ with it, sucking hard enough to sink his cheeks in, tongue slick and prodding at the sensitive skin under the head. Zayn doesn’t usually come just from someone sucking his dick, but he very well might if Harry keeps this up. 

Zayn fucks Harry’s mouth as hard as Harry lets him, keeping Harry’s head in place with a tight grip on his curls. His eyes are wet and there’s spit glistening at the corners of his mouth, but Zayn knows that Harry absolutely _loves_ this, because somewhere along the line Harry’s started jerking himself off, moaning low and muffled around Zayn’s cock. 

But Zayn wants more, needs to ask even though it’s more than likely, and quite logical, that Harry will say no. He tugs on Harry’s hair, his cock slipping wetly from between Harry’s lips. 

“Why’d you stop?” Harry frowns, voice gone hoarse and wrecked-sounding. Zayn is doubtful that bodes well for rehearsal in the morning. He doesn’t care.

“You ever been fucked, Harry?” 

Harry’s eyes go wide. It’s incongruously adorable. “You want to fuck me?” 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “We don’t have to—I mean, I’ve done anal with Perrie and she really fucking loves it. I could make you feel so good, Haz. At least let me get my fingers in you, I’ll stop whenever you want me to.” 

Harry mulls it over, biting at his red, swollen bottom lip. And then he nods, slow and like he can’t believe this is happening. Zayn can’t believe it’s happening either, but he’s soon got Harry on the bed with him, watching as Zayn opens a packet of lube and slicks his fingers up. 

Zayn sucks Harry off as he fucks him open on his fingers, and whilst Zayn isn’t as good at the whole sucking cock thing as Harry is, Harry seems to like it nonetheless, breathing hard and arching his back, inner thighs trembling against Zayn’s sides. When Zayn angles his hand just right, Harry’s toes curl into the sheets. 

“Christ, Zayn, just do it,” Harry hisses out once Zayn’s got three fingers in him. “Just put your dick in me, fuck.”

Zayn crooks his fingers again, pressing right where it makes Harry lose control, because he wants to ask for something else and he’d rather prefer it if Harry said yes to that, too. “Can I go in without a condom? Promise I’m clean. You are, too, yeah?” 

Harry lets out a frustrated whinging noise, but he’s nodding his head frantically. “Just pull out, yeah? Fuck,” he giggles, a little delirious. “Never thought I’d say that.” 

Zayn laughs, too, getting another lube packet out of the drawer, this time using it on his cock. He pushes one of Harry’s legs up and out of the way, holding it steady by the back of the knee as he takes a moment to look down at Harry, at the way his fat cock curves up against his belly, still gleaming with Zayn’s spit and leaving a thick smear of pre-come where the head touches Harry’s skin, at his arsehole and how tiny and pink it is against the paler skin of his thighs and arse. 

Zayn can’t believe they’re doing this, doesn’t understand why it feels so exhilarating and yet completely normal, like it should be a bigger deal but isn’t. He pushes into Harry slowly, giving him time to relax into it even though Zayn just wants to fuck his brains out because it’s been a long time since Zayn’s been inside someone without a condom on, and Harry’s so fucking hot and tight inside that Zayn doesn’t know how he’s going to last; it’s so good it almost bloody _hurts_. 

But Harry takes it well, whimpering softly when Zayn is all the way in, rolling his hips in shallow, deliberate thrusts to stretch Harry out more. Zayn hadn’t thought Harry would like it as much as he seems to, moaning each time Zayn’s hips smack against his arse, fingers curled around his own cock as he fucks himself right back onto Zayn’s. 

It’s not long before Zayn feels like he’s going to come, Harry tight and clenching around him, room filled with wet, slapping sounds. Zayn starts to pull out, but the hand Harry’s got on his arse grips him even tighter, fingers digging into his skin as Harry pulls him in even deeper. 

“Don’t pull out,” Harry says breathlessly. 

And fuck, Zayn knows he’s not going to last, snapping his hips hard up into Harry as he comes with a shout, eyes intent on Harry’s face as he fills him up, leaves him dripping with Zayn’s spunk. Harry’s eyes roll up to the ceiling and then he squeezes them shut, jaw slack as he makes a mess of his own stomach just like he’d done the other night, fingers desperately milking his cock for every last drop. Zayn feels his orgasm from the inside, body squeezing so tight around Zayn’s softening cock that it hurts a little. 

Zayn finally goes soft enough to slip out of Harry’s arse, collapsing beside him. They’re both breathing fast and loud, chests rising and falling out of sync. 

Harry turns to Zayn, rolling onto his side and looking fucked out and sleepy. “Well, I’d say that was worth the wait.” 

Zayn swallows. He doesn’t think his heartbeat will ever be normal again. “Sickest drunk idea that turned into a sober idea ever.” 

Harry laughs and Zayn kisses him, thinking that the universe had probably had his best interest at heart in the grand scheme of things.


End file.
